


New Strangers, New Friends

by Custardo



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, High School AU, M/M, Slow Build, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Custardo/pseuds/Custardo
Summary: Mitchell was warned of it, was prepared for it, but the reminders of the damage to the boy’s brain still stung an old man’s heart.“Yes, son, we are going to your new home.” The old man kept his eyes soft when he spoke, voice low and gentle as if coaxing a wild animal, not that the boy behaved like one, too timid and beaten down for that.-High School AU + What if the bombs never dropped?
Relationships: Craig Boone/Manny Vargas (minor)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tags will be added as they appear, 
> 
> characters will be added as they appear too
> 
> regular updates! but no schedule sorry

PROLOGUE

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**[NOVEMBER 11 2281]**

mitchell said that writing a diary might help me get my feelings all sorted out and help me remember stuff, stop me being so crazy he says, only he didn't say crazy exactly. more like 'the doctors must have missed a spot' when fixing my brain or something but im not that dumb to know thats what he meant. well, that's what i think he said anyway, but my memory isnt good which is why im doing this. wait i already wrote that, but i don't know how to go delete stuff.

i don't really miss my parents because i don't even remember them properly either, so i don't know what to write about that, maybe, actually nevermind. i guess i'll just write about what i do sort of remember. mr mitchell, he told me to call him doc because he used to be one, but that just reminds me of all the doctors in the hospital who werent as friendly as him, they sounded like robots like on the tv, but mr mitchell is nice and doesn't sound like a robot at all. we went to a diner today and the lady at the bar was nice but llooked at me funny like adults do sometimes, like, when your making them uncomfortable but you dont know why.

i wasnt so scared about school starting but most kids are and were so i guess thats just another thing that makes me different than other kidss. and mr. mitchell calls me kid but at the same time says im not, and that im a man now, but i dont know what he really means by that. because im only 16 and thats not old at all.

i made some friends already, and mr mitchell looked happy when i told him that. arcade, i think thats his name, gave me that same look the lady in the diner did when i asked if he wanted to hang out but he said yes so maybe he didnt. and i made friends with one of the teachers too but mr mitchell says that doesnt count, but i think it does. shes called miss smiles which is nice.

-

CHAPTER ONE

The sound of heavy footsteps and creaking floorboards was a welcome change to the usual silence of the little bungalow-cum-ranch house in the town of Goodsprings, since the good doctor Mitchell’s wife passed. After many long years of marriage, God had decided that the old man had received all the happiness he deserved in the middle of winter in the year of 2272 when she moved on. Suppose that’s what a man deserves for the mistake of falling in love, especially with a young woman (at the time) who was born to be sickly, with her weakened immune system, it’s as if she was too delicate for the natural earth. In the end, it was the common cold that got her.

Every time the doctor so much as sneezed or witnessed a young child with the sniffles, he couldn’t help but see death and her once twinkling eyes. But now he had a young man to care for, and it wouldn’t do to see death in such a young thing, young in body but younger in mind; especially since his parents ran themselves off on the wrong curve of the wrong road with him in the back seat. It was for the best he didn’t remember, at least, that’s what the good doctor told himself when the boy tilted his head and asked what the doctors were talking about when the subject came up.

“He may remember in time; time is the biggest healer.” One doctor said to the other, but Mr. Mitchell had thought his heart and own pains had proved that to sing untrue. He was wise enough to know to nod in a polite manner anyway, a small smile twitching to bring up the ends of his gray mustache.

The doctor, the right one, with the mustache; balding hair and tobacco stained fingers, took the boy’s hand as if he were still only a child, and made their way to his beat-up old truck that showed its age just as well as the old man who drove it.

Hesitation showed in the boy’s frame, fingers shaking slightly as he sat in the car as if he had never done such a thing before, eyes glassy like he wasn’t even there at all. But the old man waited, since that’s what he knew best, and the boy was eventually pulling his seatbelt over himself with only a small amount of struggle, sporting only bruises now – lucky to have not broken his bones or neck like his parents. It was an old vehicle after all, the passenger belt not having seen much use for a while. Last time somebody had used it, the doctor recalled, was when he picked up a waitress on the side of the road, recognizing her despite her sopping clothes and hair sticking to her puffy cheeks. She thanked him politely and he refused the small change she made to give him for his kind gesture. Her eyes showed that she didn’t want to give such a thing away, small to some but not to her, so he refused, saying it was no big deal, despite already doing the calculations for the gas money in the back of his head.

“Are we going home?” The boy was sitting up straight, not relaxing against the back seat at all, as if it weren’t a cushioned leather backrest but rather a torture device. His gaunt face showed no signs of discomfort, instead his eyes were just, plain. Focused on his own grandfather like he didn’t recognize him.

Mitchell was warned of it, was prepared for it, but the reminders of the damage to the boy’s brain still stung an old man’s heart.

“Yes, son, we are going to your _new_ home.” The old man kept his eyes soft when he spoke, voice low and gentle as if coaxing a wild animal, not that the boy behaved like one, too timid and beaten down for that. Once wild but no longer.

Confusion swept those features for only a flicker, before the regularly scheduled program came back on, face blank and turning to look out of the front window. Spine still far from the seat and hands on his legs as if he were in a church as opposed to a hospital parking lot.

The doctor thought for a moment if he should comment on it, tell the boy to relax, but decided it would be best to not bring attention to such a thing. Let the boy do what he felt, if he thought that’s how he should sit then let him, looking strange or not wasn’t the end of the world right now.

The truck’s engine came to life, jerking from the parking space not soon after. The small and green tree-shaped car freshener shaking as wildly as the boy in his passenger seat did, the way the boy was sitting made it a touch difficult to see his right mirror, but some angling of his old bones fixed that. He wasn’t on death’s door just yet, if he still had some luck left. Losing his only son and his wife a few weeks ago may have been showing Mitchell had used up all his luck, and it being the finality in the coffin of their strained father-son relationship to those viewing from the outside, but the doc felt the separation years before, about the time the boy in his company was born. Never quite being cared for the way his granddaddy would, but not so bad he could do anything about it.

Perhaps the doctor should feel worse, he certainly didn’t feel pleasant or any positive emotion right now, but he could acknowledge that he was here for the boy, no, young man now. Do more than his own father did for him. Whether old man Mitchell was thinking on his own daddy who was long dead or recently deceased son in that thought, he wasn’t so sure himself, so he discarded it with a flick of his wrist, changing gear and lurching from the parking lot with a similar sense of finality he had felt many times before in his long life.

-

Mr. Mitchell took his grandson’s luggage from behind the truck seats, a stained rucksack with some belongings inside giving it sharp points and corners, making it look something like a hedgehog, and a pillowcase; so faded the image wasn’t recognizable to his old eyes, with some papers and cards inside. He was curious, but didn’t want to pry, he would remember to ask about it later, do some of those memory exercises the nurse recommended. Courier, the unusual name for the unusual fellow between boy and man, not the name he would have chosen but it could have been worse, didn’t do the usual social thing of offering to take the bags. Not that Mitchell would have accepted, instead the old man noted that he took to standing with his arms down his sides, head down to the gravel and sprouting weeds, beneath his sneakers. More of a shut down robot, or a malfunctioning one, than the lively young toddler he had last seen him be.

The bag’s strap was soon wrestled free from where it had caught on something or other, and with said strap in his wrinkled hand and the pillowcase under his strongest arm, Mr. Mitchell patted the boy on his back with the other and spoke, “Come on, son.” Hand not leaving as he guided them up the creaking front porch steps as the light automatically came on, fighting against the dark evening sky. The only greeting the old man had gotten from his little home since his high school sweetheart had gone without him.

Mitchell opened the front door, bathing them and the porch in more yellowed light as he ushered Courier inside. If the boy recognized this wasn’t the home he was used to, he didn’t comment on it, keeping all his rattling thoughts behind those pale blue eyes. If there were any thoughts going on back there.

The doctor sat the belongings by the door, next to his only other pair of footwear, for if he had to go anywhere fancy. But all he had worn them to lately were funerals, nowhere fancy at all and they’d lost their shine. He dropped his hand to give the boy some freedom, locking the door behind them with shaking fingers, and offered his grandson a tour he should have received years ago, but received quite the shake of a head in return. If there were any thoughts going on, they would surely have fallen out of his ears by that type of movement.

“Okay, I can at least take you to your room and fix you something to eat.”

The boy didn’t shake like a dog in the rain at that, so Doc Mitchell took it as agreement, or at least tolerance. The old man made way to the room, boy following, he had to fix together in a hurry, feeling sorry that he had neglected his little ranch house, specifically the boy’s new room, after his wife’s passing. It was better off with the door being shut, pretending that the room didn’t exist at all so even a one-story tiny building didn’t feel so big and empty. The door became just another wall that he supported himself against when his leg got bad.

Mitchell made move to the door handle before pausing, “Why don’t you open it, son?” best to give him some freedom and choice.

Courier looked startled at that, eyes wide and mouth open, revealing bottom teeth that reminded the doctor of Goodsprings’s cemetery, only with a bit more color. “Um, okay.” The boy’s nails needed a trim but weren’t so bad, some were bitten short, other fingers, the skin was bitten instead. Those fingers wrapped around the knob, twisting quickly then dropping, as if it burned to the touch.

The door fell open, smoothly now the doctor had gotten to his knees and greased up the hinges. Mitchell reached inside to the left of the door and flicked the light switch on, and the hanging bulb, lacking a shade, came to life with a buzz and a flicker after a few seconds. The old man had left the bedroom’s window open, to get rid of the fresh paint smell and lingering sour stale stench of a room that had been abandoned. The plaid green curtains didn’t move, despite the access to night air, looks like there wasn’t much wind tonight, and if there was, it was too weak to get through the mesh screen keeping the bugs out.

With a quick check if the boy could enter the room or just stand and stare, his grandfather nodded and waved his hand over the threshold; the boy stepped on the sanded and lacquered floorboards with his muddied sneakers, taking in the new environment and what it could all mean. Boards bending even under, what the doctor could guess, the boy’s light weight as his grandson made way to the terminal on the desk by the window first, passing the single bed and mattress, with hand-me-down sheets from their meaning-well neighbor.

“Have you ever used one of those?” Mr. Mitchell asked, although he could guess the answer just fine, then closed the door behind him and echoed the boy’s footsteps.

Without looking up, the boy poked at some keys without a chair to sit at he was made to contort in a way, bending his spine in an arc over the monitor. The old man had forgotten to grab one of the spare dining chairs in the rush of everything. “No, but I seen the advertisements.” Yet, the key pressing caused nothing to happen since it wasn’t turned on. Only a reflection of his grandson’s greased blond hair, sharp bone structure that could make a handsome man if the right weight were put on it, and blank expression was projected.

That’s another thing the doctor forgot, a mirror, a young man looking to be seen by girls would want one of those in his bedroom, right? It had been a long time since Mr. Mitchell was a teenage boy, but he couldn’t say he saw that their behaviors had changed much. The boy would just have to use the small one in the bathroom, usually reserved for when the old man shaved in the mornings.

Mitchell cleared his throat before speaking, not due to nervousness but rather years of smoking required him to do that from time to time. “You turn it on here,” Pointing his yellowed index finger to the large button with a similarly yellowed rubber covering on the terminal’s front. The boy’s eyes following as when he was told to look at the other doctor’s finger when he awoke from the coma.

Mr. Mitchell pressed it after a few seconds of hovering, and soon a green light shone over his grandson’s face and the reflection was drowned away.

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“Sorry, I didn’t know how to change the name son, but it works just fine.” Mitchell stood by the boy, hopefully giving him enough elbow room - Courier needed it with how elongated he was. “You can write anything you want, son. I won’t look but if you want you can put a password on it.” A chuckle escaped him when the boy peered his blue’s up at him as if he were offering something alien. “But I heard your memory is a bit fuzzy right now, so maybe another time.”

The old man hoped the joke wasn’t too careless or tactless, but Courier didn’t look put out or offended, instead giving a polite closed-lipped smile and turning back to the blinking letters.

“What do I do on it?” Pressing random keys as he spoke, ignoring, or oblivious to, the error sounds the terminal shot back.

“You have to make a new entry if you want to type.” Mitchell pointed a shaking finger at one of the keys, thinking back to the terminal set he had in the Vault, and all the patient’s information he would write down. Remembering recording births and deaths like they meant just the same thing. “Or, you could send messages to any friends you make,” It was a bad thing to think, but he knew his grandson didn’t have any right now, especially with having to move so far away, not that the boy knew he supposed, “this number scratched on the side is unique to just this machine, I’ll write it down for you and you can give it to anyone,” he paused, “anyone who you can trust okay?” he hoped he hadn’t just set up the boy to any dangers. Maybe he would have to check it now and then to be sure…

The boy nodded as his finger bumped the doctor’s and slowly pressed the key, as if the hunk of metal beneath him would appreciate what made a touch so gentle.

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“Then you press this big key,” his hand’s quivering got worse as his wrinkled finger went to point but the boy moved quicker than him, figuring it out already, “then, that means you selected that entry, and you write away, whatever you like, maybe what happened today?”

“Not much happened.”

The doctor could confidently disagree with that, but he didn’t press. Patting the boy on the shoulder, and telling him he would go grab his things, then make them some dinner.

Courier didn’t give anything resembling a reply, and didn’t move to type either, only watching the blinking marker on the screen waiting for his input. The old man held back his sigh, feeling every age his bones had lived down to this very moment, cleared his throat once more, and left the boy to it. Closing the door so gentle, it almost didn’t make a sound. Almost. Unusual how such a small noise in silence could seem so loud.

Right opposite his grandson’s new door, hung a photograph. A young couple, newly made man and wife, man with no balding spot, stained fingers or even a single whisker; woman, not sporting a single wrinkle or grey hair, with painted lips and a bright smile. Mitchell wished they had gotten it printed in color, her lips didn’t look the same in such a grey and sickly shade as apposed usual red tube that sat on the nightstand that was still hers.

Better go fix that boy something to eat, other than hospital food. Not that insta-mash would be much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Render by Kruglovz! https://www.instagram.com/kruglovz/


	2. Chapter 2

“Craig! Get yourself up and help me with T.J.!” The rough voice of a mother to two teenagers, three prepubescents, and one toddler, ricocheted down the hall and under the gap of one of her children’s door. Vocals accompanied by the clashing of pots and pans in the sink, a child’s cry and the occasional cough from someone somewhere, sometimes coming from the teenager’s momma herself.

With a throw of thin sheet from over him, Craig Boone called back a “Yeah, I’m up!” not that it was recent news. Wasn’t easy getting sleep when you lived in a trailer park with too many siblings, and wild cats that fought in the trash cans outside on a night. Not that they sounded any different, hell, sometimes he preferred the cats, at least that was entertaining, and a winner came out in the end. As opposed to his mom, or whichever step-dad he had at the time, spreading their arms wide and stating the kids were all as bad as each other – standing there proud, like they just let loose the same type of wisdom as the philosophers his teachers made him read up on.

Slapping a hand against his thigh, Craig looked around his tiny room for something decent to wear, something better and more than just boxers his mom got him when he was thirteen.

Four dark, oak walls made up a room that wasn’t big by any means, leaving barely any space to stand between the single bed pushed tight against the rotting window, that always felt a bit too low, and the broken closet directly by the bed’s side. A shed would be a more accurate term, if his small space were alone somewhere, out of the way. Yet, unfortunately, it came attached to bad family and all the members of said family’s strained relationships. Sometimes, when Craig Boone lay on that lumpy mattress, toes hanging from the edge, listening to a cat’s yowl outside, he imagines all the little strings tied round each handle, leading to each other and just how much stress those strings were under. One day they could even snap, or, more anti-climatically, the knot would fall loose, and the string would float to the spotty floor and its missing tiles.

He was surprised the bed even fit at all, and that his small arms could even push the mattress through the door frame, since his mom’s friend at the time (he understood the company she kept better now he had grown some) said he had be a man and do it himself. The wood paneled walls receiving a bit of a scraping during the moving, but those marks all blended in with the old ones from past owners, so it didn’t matter much. Lacking even any posters on the wall, just a spot where tape once held up a small Polaroid of him and Carla, strategically placed to hide a particularly large crack at one point in time, but the photograph had been taken by her soft hands and the crack was in plain sight once more. Only a sticky mark to remind him she was ever there at all.

Stepping into the shorts, he felt like, on the day his momma gave him them, he began noticing girls and how his classmates, and himself, started to look different. Thinking back on the time how Manny bragged when he first noticed himself growing facial hair, though it looked more like peach fuzz to his best friend, Manny kept it anyway and it grew darker as they got older, starting to suit his dark lashes and hair on his head too.

Then a year after that, Craig stole a lock from the school’s toilets to put on his own door when he found out they were moving to a bigger trailer, that now he could have a room all to himself. It was good to have privacy when he could. Pretty lucky to have a room of his own, really, considering how he wasn’t even the oldest. His parents, well, mom and whoever else was around at the time, never commented on where he gotten it, why his door wouldn’t open sometimes. But his older sister teased him about it now and then.

Craig didn’t bother making the bed back up, he was only going to fall into it again at the end of the day, so what was the point? Grabbed some cargoes from the floor, with the fabric belt still loose through the loops and pulled them on, and closed them a hole looser than he usually wore since he only wanted them to not fall down, missing a shirt that needed to be kept tucked in.

Upon unlocking the door, and struggling for a moment to open it, since it wasn’t at the same angle as the floor, Boone was faced with his youngest brother, snot nosed, red faced, with damp curls stuck to his forehead and sobbing like the bombs on the T.V. came true. His diaper looked new so Boone picked him up and made shushing noises, since that’s all he could think to do in the moment, but even on the short walk to the kitchen, the crying felt as though it was growing louder, though it probably stayed just the same.

His sister was relaxed on the corner sofa, bleached, dead hair falling loose over her shoulders and beaten tank top, a fashion magazine or other fallen on her crossed legs as her feet were perched on the breakfast table. Never one to keep a comment to herself, she spoke up in a mock-sympathy tone. “Thought you would be good with kids considering you got that girl pregnant.”

Craig ignored how his gut still churned at the reminder of Carla, and how her rich daddy didn’t take kindly to the news. Bouncing T.J. on his hip, his voice was rough. “Why aren’t you helping?”

She dramatically slapped the magazine on her lap, feet falling from the table, then leaned over, smiling as if she were on the edge of sharing a dazzling secret. “I’m pregnant too.” Her voice a stage whisper, barely containing how hilarious she found the idea, thin lips stretching over her coffee stained teeth as she held herself on pause for a reaction.

“Shut up.”

She giggled, all fake, in response and returned to her beaten magazine, but Boone doubted any fashion skills she would pick up from the trash articles could make any guy tolerate her enough to even get her pregnant.

His momma kept the clattering dish-symphony going in the background during their exchange and somehow it felt it clanged over the screech of the four-year-old directly in his ear, that was now clutching at the dog tags, with clammy fingers, that he still wore. Despite all the bad memories that came with Camp McCarran, and what happened around that time. At least he met Manny there, Christ he needed to tell him about him and Carla.

“What’s he need?” Referring to his baby brother as the teenage boy, playing the role of a young man, spoke to his mother’s shaking shoulders, from where he was, it looked like she wanted to make a hole in the pot, not just clean it. Guess his new stepdad fucked up again, or maybe he didn’t. She just got like that sometimes. Her broad, freckled shoulders paused for merely a moment, before continuing at a purposefully slowed pace, not matching the rush she used to get her words out, “Just take him out, somewhere, I don’t know. I can’t stand him, _it_ , I mean, anymore.” Wiping her forehead before dunking the pot back in the soap suds and starting her scrubbing back up again.

Her seventeen-year-old son, holding her youngest, may not have been the smartest, but he knew she wasn’t just referring to the boy’s crying. Wasn’t T.J.’s fault he was a kid and the worst thing he experienced in the world so far was not getting chocolate for breakfast, or that he broke his own toy on accident. Bracing himself before he spoke, as one quickly got into the habit of doing when standing in this spot of the kitchen, tiles hot on his bare feet due to California weather, and facing his mother figure and whatever was going through her head, Boone’s voice was steady. “I got school today.” It was Wednesday after all.

Instead of the cleaning growing in vigor, as he expected, it came to a gentle slow stop, a stream quietly stilling in dirty dish water. T.J. seemed to even want to match the stillness in the air, like he was old enough to be interested in watching what would happen next. Not even a magazine page flipping could be heard. It was quiet. Boone shifted his weight from one leg. Then to the other. Nothing changed, just his momma’s skinny elbow and shoulder rotating to make circles in a pot that wasn’t going to look clean anyway, thanks to its pig ugly design.

He accepted her frustration, it mustn’t be easy, and carried T.J. with him back to his room. It’s not like they could chain the kid outside until he cried himself tired like they did when they had the dog. Part of him felt that he got away lucky with Carla, her family taking care of the baby, rather than how her boyfriend planned to claw some quarters together as if that would buy them and the baby a place together. But he still felt mighty guilty. He wore a condom, just like how the overweight lady with too much make-up told him and the room full of other boys his age to do, but it happened anyway. The fat lady never said what to do next if that 99% effective rate chanced itself and failed.

Dropping his brother on the spring mattress, Boone ignored how the cries came back and definitely grew louder this time; his mom made it known with another crash of pots that she heard it. The teenager didn’t bother looking in the closet that was missing its door, and searched through the pile on his carpeted floor instead, picking a shirt that didn’t look too bad, with some logo for a soda brand they could never afford to buy.


	3. Chapter 3

A gentle, tapping against his bedroom door could only be caused by Arcade Gannon’s mother. Only she would make something such as a knock, in theory, designed to be loud and attention grabbing, something to be timid and shy about. He was pleased it wasn’t his father as sad of a thought as it was.

Dropping the pencil from his mouth, a habit he really had to stop considering how many people borrowed stationary from him, when they did give it back that is; Arcade didn’t need to shout to be heard. “Come in.” He looked up, over his glasses, from the textbook on his bed, lounging on his front, with a pillow under his chest, not that it made it any better for his spine. But he liked to be comfortable, if he were destined to sit at a desk with chair backs designed by people that were never going to actually sit in them for themselves, then he would take this luxury on the early mornings that he could.

The door opened, his mother’s soft smile being the first thing he noticed, then her white-blonde hair that he thankfully inherited, those genes winning over his father’s that made his hair resemble brown smoke more than anything more appealing. She had it cut shorter than usual the last time she had the hairdresser over, and it framed just below her soft jaw now. Face free from her usual make-up, she tended to put it on closer to the middle of the day, rather than mornings. Her painted nails wrapped around the door frame, voice deep for a woman’s, but still feminine. Rich, Arcade thought. “Good morning. I’m making myself an omelet for breakfast, what would you like?” Spoken tight and prim, taking orders at a diner rather than speaking mother-to-son.

“I’ll have the same, thank you mother.” If he sounded a touch weary, she didn’t comment on it. Really the idea of an omelet didn’t appeal to him right now, but he couldn’t decide on anything that would sound better. His appetite was always a little spotty during the week. Thankfully, he was halfway through the five days of uncomfortableness from the education system.

The door was shut with no other words, as the soft click sounded it into place and a click of heels on hardwood floors faded away, Arcade dropped the pencil completely now to his copy of a rather substantial book on human biology – although the class had been told they would only ever look at a small portion of it. Swinging his legs over his bed, Arcade stood and placed the book back on its shelf, on a different level as his personal possessions, far away from titles with far more distinguished authors than whichever sorry soul was tasked with attempting to explain how reproductive organs work to teenagers.

His room was rather substantial, yet he never found much satisfaction from buying things to fill the space he had, bar from his small collection of classic literature that people didn’t bother with now. He wasn’t too head-in-the-sand to see he was much more well off than some of his other classmates, his father being an important government official, meant that he worked long yet well-paying hours to support his wife and only child, yet somehow, never making the time to spend more than a few moments in his son’s company, and only going to bed with his wife to sleep. Arcade often pitied his mother, despite knowing that would be the last thing she would ever want, especially from her own child. She had a varied social circle and even often attempted to invite Arcade into her hobbies that she wasn’t the most skilled at, yet enjoyed.

Dragging a finger down a cracked spine of some novel or other, he fondly remembered the feeling of being tangled in knitting wool at the dining table, fingers intertwined with the softest olive green snakes, before his father arrived and the air suddenly felt so much chillier than before. Perhaps it was a fitting situation and a tad ironic, considering how their original goal was for Arcade to learn how to knit a basic scarf for the upcoming cold season.

“I don’t see why you waste my money on that stuff, Amanda.” His father, would often repeat as if he were talking to an inmate in a glass booth classified as criminally insane, rather than a housewife who didn’t have many housewife chores to actually attend to, experiencing a poignant moment with her son. With only being given one child, now attending school during the day, and no sign for any other children coming her way, it wasn’t so irrational to think that she would like to do something with her time.

Arcade bit his bottom lip, and studied the rug through the arch dividing the adjoined dining and kitchen space from the living room, wishing he was at least that extra bit of distance away, so he were to not be made to witness the signs of no love between his parents. Disinterest oozing from his father and slight bitterness from his mother, as sweet as she was, she was human and not perfect. Arcade sometimes appreciated that, to see even a woman many would describe as an angel-on-earth could have a short fuse sometimes – he didn’t judge her for it and a small part of him cheered her on when she stood up for herself, the other part of him wishing she didn’t have to in the first place, at least not in front of her son anyway.

“Well, when I’m all alone in such a big house, I like to have something to do.” The lonely wife’s tone a slight bit strained, containing herself for the sake of her son, he presumed. Her hair was long at this time, white manufactured-curls framing her face like a lion’s mane, set with so much hairspray they didn’t even bounce when her head turned fast and wicked – however, her hanging diamond earrings did, getting tangled slightly in her blouse’s collar. “Maybe if you didn’t take any excuse you could to-” Her red lips stopped, catching herself as brown eyes (Arcade didn’t have) fell to the polished floor.

The teenager’s chair didn’t scrape, instead sliding smoothly against the flooring, thanks to some sort of padding the house keepers added to the bottom of the legs, as Arcade stood. He left the kitchen, tall, visually opposing father facing an open double refrigerator without really looking, his knuckles dusted with brown hair shaking as he gripped its handle, and mother, a woman so strong and beautiful, be so beaten down and slouched in one of the dining chairs, chin resting in her hand. Elbow on the table too, contradicting how Arcade repeatedly received a scolding for doing the very same thing during meals, although the circumstances were different now, so he wouldn’t hold it against her.

-

“I’m sorry, Arcade.” She would whisper later that night, seeing her son before bed, a routine she had slowly stopped as he grew older, now he was eighteen and she was back. Her weight on the mattress was overbearing at some points in his growing up, but right now, he remembered how much he missed it, her fingers with painted nails running through his hair evoking memories of when he had chicken pox as a child.

“It’s alright, mother, I understand.” He would reply, though surely it wasn’t true. A boy his age would never understand what it would be like to watch your husband fall out of love with you, then have the son you made together, be a walking reminder of it. If this is what the typical husband-wife situation was like, perhaps he was grateful his preferences lay on the same sex. Not that he saw such a, condition? He never quite knew how to refer to it, as a good thing in general. It wasn’t the most pleasant or relaxing experience to know he was different and that perhaps, something was wrong with him that no doctor could fix – although he had heard of some of the methods at attempting to do such a thing. It was best kept a secret for now, although, now Arcade would never describe himself as a paranoid person, his father would get a look in his eyes at times when he was home for his son to witness it. Shortly after his mother would ask him if he was seeing any girls, how Emily was, if she was still ignoring him after the falling out they had when she was nine and he was ten, and especially when Arcade would reply that no, he isn’t seeing any girls.

Perhaps that’s why his father wasn’t home as much. What self-respecting man, a high-ranking member of the Enclave who wants to keep a good reputation with other self-respecting men with normal children, would want to come home to his son sitting with his mother and her female friends talking about things only women spoke about? His son laughing when his not-really-his-auntie Daisy would tell him that her favorite actor was that handsome one with the slicked back hair then Arcade agreeing in return, rather than mentioning the pretty starlet all the boys at school liked.

He really needed to be more careful.


	4. Chapter 4

The ticking clock in the hall was loud enough to fill the empty silences between grandfather and grandson, but the grandfather spoke anyways. “How’s your dinner, son?”

“Okay.”

Mr. Mitchell made a small grunt of acknowledgment and twisted the ends of his mustache between his wrinkled fingers, studying the boy hunched over his meal like it was a secret to hide; not that it was much of one since it was the old man himself who made the meal for them both. The boy sat in his late wife’s chair by mistake, but he didn’t comment on it, it was nice to see the space being filled finally, even if it was by the wrong person. In fact, he was quite surprised when Courier stood from the terminal – that still lacked any text on its screen – when Mitchell arrived with his plate. Standing under the hanging bulb, waiting to be shown where the doctor would be eating also, so the old man led him to the small misshapen kitchen that also held the wooden dining table and once four, but now three, chairs.

Courier ate slow and Mr. Mitchell couldn’t determine if that were just the boy’s nature or if he were still in pain from the accident, or overall shock and weakness from what he went through. The Lord was much kinder to the boy than his parents, practically coming out unscathed and the coma he fell under quite short, lasting the usual few weeks, and nothing too worrying considering how badly it could have turned out. His foggy memory wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened, and it would come back in time. The word ‘coma’ often scared patient’s families half ways to death when Mr. Mitchell did have the rare exchange of breaking such type of news in Vault 21, but it usually only got scary in even rarer circumstances.

A lone stainless-steel fork, in the boy’s right hand rather than the usual fork-in-left and knife-in-right, was poking around the peas into the mash. Not purposefully lacking table manners, but rather he was just never shown the ‘proper’ way by his folks; Mr. Mitchell couldn’t fault a child for only using what he was given. If he weren’t arranged with the social rules on life then that would be something they could work on together, hopefully, before the boy returned to his schooling.

Schooling. Now that was something helping rile up the headache behind the doctor’s eyes. Later that night, when the table had been cleared, non-eaten peas, mash and canned meat thrown in the trash can under the sink, and the boy hopefully sleeping in an unfamiliar room and mattress, the doctor sat on his lonesome couch and prayed the boy would be okay before turning into bed himself.

-

The good doctor was not usually a man prone to pacing, and if he were, his bad leg would surely kick up a stink at such an unnecessary method of stress relief. Albeit, in this moment, pacing seemed like just the perfect activity, especially to accompany the phone cord already twisted between his fingers, bending the digits in a way that made it seem the old man was already experiencing arthritis despite the fact that it was his lower half having troubles, not upper.

Doc Mitchell _was_ , however, a patient man, but such patience was being tested by a secretary with a voice like nails on a chalkboard. The boy couldn’t do to miss any more schooling, however, the fact that he had to move in with his grandfather in the town of Goodsprings put quite a wrench in it, not only would the boy need special education (he probably did before the accident really), he was also going to be moving schools completely. The old man had hoped the grades would transfer smoothly, and perhaps even get a bit of sympathy and assistance in such a difficult time, yet, no dice.

Mitchell tried in vain to speak over the tinny rattle coming from the telephone. “Look- Yes I know- But, the boy- Courier,” Giving up and waiting till the woman on the other end of the line ran out of breath to try and get a word in. Darn this lady didn’t close her mouth, despite the whole lot of nothing she was spewing.

-

Courier knew a lot more than the old man thought. He knew Mr. Mitchell was really his granddad, he’d been told at the hospital, but he didn’t know why he didn’t remember him. Though the eyes were familiar which was comforting, they reminded him of nice things, yet he couldn’t put a finger on what nice things exactly. Maybe he just had those types of eyes.

He wiggled on his new bed, covers still pulled above the pillow since he slept above them, the bed was almost as neat as how they teach you to make it in the army. But the boy didn’t think the old man was in the army. Was he? Mr. Mitchell said he was a doctor in one of those Vaults rich people with paranoia liked to lock themselves in, even though nuclear fallout was something from the comic books and movies, not real life. He didn’t see why war was even a thing anyway, in real life or the comics and movies. It just made him sad to think about and he couldn’t figure out what the big words people used when talking about it meant anyways.

The terminal was still flashing in the dark room, it did through-out the entire night and now into the early morning, he liked the little amount of light. Blinking green flashes in the sunrise like lightning but without the thunder, it wasn’t so intense though that he could see it behind closed eyelids, so he kept them open even though he was so tired they were feeling pretty heavy, despite his okay sleep. When his eyes did close, its like he could hear better, like he was in _¡La Fantoma!_ , Mr. Mitchells voice coming in through the walls. Filtering under the crooked gap under the door, through the faded smoke-yellowed wallpaper that Courier could tell was pretty once and even through the open window since another in the house was open somewhere too.

“I know the boy is troubled, he’s also went through something serious- Yes, I know, but-” Mr. Mitchell’s voice stopped like he was listening, but Courier couldn’t hear the other person. After the clock ticked seven times, the old man continued, his throat full of phlegm for a moment before he cleared it. “Why not just give him a chance, he’s not a bad kid and schools are meant to teach aren’t they? So teach the boy, it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know much now…” Mr. Mitchell kept talking but he didn’t want to listen.

Instead jumping from the bed and its itchy green sheets, wrinkled from his movements, and shutting the window with a moment of struggle. It had been painted open, paint chips cracking off onto the desk and terminal when it finally fell down with a thud. The boy paused for a moment, unsure if the old man had heard, his hands with uneven nails and dry knuckles pressed flat against the window’s frame - and some fingertips on the glass, leaving stray marks. But the clock kept ticking, the old man kept talking – more muffled now – and no heavy footsteps ran down the hall, only to swing the door open so hard the doorknob would make a hole in the wall. It was quiet, but not a quiet that lacked sound, rather a quiet of something akin to peace and calm, normal life, evidence of another human _living_ in the shared space with him.

The boy pressed his cheek to the cold window’s glass, relief and confusion was settled under his skin from everything that had happened, but those feelings and signals shooting around his brain didn’t affect him how the window did. The window was cool, hard and unwavering, something he knew would never change, not like bed sheets or clothes, or when the old man did and didn’t talk.

He’d had to bend over the desk to reach the window, and it was hurting his hips, the lip of the desk not being sanded to a round edge, so Courier broke the contact only to watch the door and the light coming under its frame. Nothing changed, the light remaining constant. He tested his weight on the desk with his hands, jumping a bit. The desk was strong, and it held the heavy terminal just fine. They could share the space. Courier faced his back to the desk, and jumped to sit, wiggling back until the fabric of his shirt made contact; the cool window-pane spreading relief through the cotton, through his skin and, what felt like, down to his spine. The back of his skull, encased in a scalp with clumped blond curls, was touched by the glass too. The boy who had spent so little time on this earth never had the best concept of it, he could have been there for only a minute or so, or the entire morning, but it didn’t matter to him. Eventually waking to the old man, once doctor, once husband, now caretaker again, shaking his shoulder and saying, “Time for some breakfast, son. I have good news.”

-

Mr. Mitchell’s gravelly voice was clear to hear over the gentle sliding open and closing of drawers, fridge door falling shut and the pressing of the toaster, “If you’re up for it, son, this new school is happy to take you in. See how you get on. Don’t worry about grades or anything like that, it’s all sorted… Son?”

The boy, sat in a dead woman’s chair, looked awfully small despite having nearly a man’s shoulders and body, spine slouched and his greasy curls obscuring his face. With a few steps across the small kitchen and its tiles, Mr. Mitchell raised a tobacco stained finger to brush the matted locks from the boy’s cheek to around his ear, hygiene was something they could work on slowly too, when the boy got more comfortable – the boy seemed to brush his teeth alright, though, it was just his hair that was a problem. “That alright? You could make some friends. Give them the terminal number remember?”

Pale blue eyes, shining wet, peered up at his grandfather, eyebrows raised in the way a puppy, with a sorry expression, about to be put down would wear. Doc Mitchell sure wished he were a doctor of the mind, rather than body, at this moment in time. Courier opened his mouth, lips sticking together for a second or two before they parted with no words spilling out, his head bouncing up and down in lieu of a worded reply, causing the coils of golden hair to fall free once more.

Mr. Mitchell nodded back, pressing his own lips together and patting Courier on his shoulder, making note of how prominent the bone there was, but didn’t let go. “Did you like your old school?”

The boy shook his head.

“Well, you can make a fresh start in your new one. You start on the Tuesday in November, okay? We have the rest of this month to get you up to speed with everything here.” The old man pulled his most friendly talking-to-a-patient smile, crow’s-feet crinkling the corners of his eyes and mustache upturned.

The boy mumbled something his old ears didn’t quite catch.

Mitchel leaned in. “What was that, son?”

Courier shifted and spoke again barely increasing his volume, but it was loud enough. “Halloween.”

Mr. Mitchell filled in the rest of what the boy wasn’t saying and got the general idea. The smile under his grey mustache grew bigger and his own set of teeth showed, not as crooked or discolored as the boy’s but his weren’t perfect either – not that it made the old man’s smile any less treasured by people who saw it though. Looks like this young man still had some boyhood left in him, Mitchell sent a silent thanks up to God for that, they could spend some great days together yet as a grandfather and grandchild should.

“Let me grab that toast and we can talk all about what you want to be.”

Courier brushed his own curls back at that and smiled in such a gentle manner it didn’t make him look much like a man at all, rather something much more timid and younger.


	5. Chapter 5

Eleven nights passed.

On the second of those nights, Doc Mitchell had spoken that it took at least twenty-one days to form a habit, muttering as if convincing himself of such a fact, rather than the boy it was directed to. The bristles of his mustache were stained yellow close to his lips and they trembled as he puffed out each breath. Billows disrupting the strands of Courier’s hair that had managed to cooperate enough to become untangled and free; dancing and floating in the air as if they didn’t weigh anything at all and had never encountered the experience of being chained down in the first place.

The boy was hesitant at first, not wanting to cut the matted locks, but also wincing at the sight of a comb. Eventually, with enough coaxing and patience, and quivering old fingers pulling gentle as they knew how, the boy had settled some. Now square knees had been pulled close and a wide chin rested on his jeans as he let his grandfather take control. His eyes were scrunched closed, face grimacing with an expression akin to something like pain – the old man knew he was being slow enough to not cause physical agony, but he couldn’t speak on the emotional discomfort of the situation, so he didn’t. Choosing the path of listening to the clock tick, the slow whir of the ceiling fan in the kitchen and the small exhales through Courier’s sharp nostrils.

On the fourth night, a boy held a hairbrush surely for a woman. Fingernails had now been trimmed, creams had been rubbed into broken skin and that skin stretched over bone, still lacking the usual healthy vigor and glow it should be shining with, but it appeared better than it had been lately. The young man was never what one would call confident, girls didn’t talk to him and boys didn’t want to be his friend. The only time he had ever received a compliment was on his eyes by meaning-well older women who had to think for a seconds before opening their mouth, and those eyes they mentioned looked like a girls’ anyway. Someone in his past had even once told him “If someone says your best feature is your eyes then you’re probably pretty ugly.” He didn’t remember who it was that said that, why they said it, but he remembered how it made him feel.

 _It_ was pretty. The item in his thin palm was heavy, but pretty. Wooden and flowering shapes were etched along its length, before blooming full along its flat backing. With dark oak for skin and pale blond bristles from a horse’s mane for hair. With a twist of his wrist, the bristles faced him, running his fingers barely over its tips, evoking memories of fields of hay. Not that Courier had ever seen any personally, but on the T.V. counted too and he supposed it would feel just the same.

He didn’t need a mirror, simply testing the waters of caring for his hair’s health rather than his goal being to style it into something resembling a page in a fashion magazine. So, Courier sat, on second-hand sheets and on a second-hand mattress that was over a second-hand bed frame and began. Starting from the ends and moving higher and higher until he ran out of golden waves to tend to.

On the final day, it was a moment marked in dying permanent marker with black ink on a calendar hanging on the kitchen wall from a metal tack. The writing was shaky, ink bleeding too fast on some points where the old man had taken rest mid letter, yet it was legible – for a doctor’s hand anyway. ‘FIRST DAY!’ it read.

Mr. Mitchell had made effort to drum up some excitement for such an event and Courier, with his type of mind, followed it with ease that came naturally, replicating the enthusiasm soon enough evidenced by little smiles and glances at the calendar during each meal-time. The old man would never make a comment on it, in fear of embarrassing the boy, but rather chose to encourage the behaviour of being a normal young man with hopes and feelings, doting with extra smiles at his grandson and pats to the back and shoulder – which had a small healthier layer of fat to them. However, at the back of the old man’s aged mind, he dreaded if any terrible news were to occur and crush all that had been building.

Courier was up early, earlier than early, rabbiting on in the old man’s age spotted ears that 4:00AM was practically 5:00AM, which was practically 6:00AM… He tuned it out eventually.

The boy’s talking got better slow at first, then one day, it was if something clicked into place (or snapped) and he could keep going till he passed out. Some nights he did, on the couch and a barely started crossword resting on a lap that old eyes couldn’t focus on due to the noise passing into his ears. It had been a while since the expansive lack of noise in the tiny ranch house had been filled by sounds other than a lone coffee cup being sipped, a clock ticking the seconds of life away or slightly exasperated huffs when even a walk from bathroom to bedroom felt like a mile. It would take some getting used to.

-

A kind seeming lady with her hair tied back into a tight ponytail met the young man at the front of the gates, Mitchell faintly recognized her from the rare occasions he ventured from his porch steps to the local Prospector Saloon, but found it may not be wise to share a teacher’s visitations to a dive that was many people’s vices. The old man wasn’t one to judge if he were there also.

The young lady nodded, the old man smiled, one another passing polite pleasantries, then before old doc Mitchell could even register what had happened the young lady had turned away, walking with Courier in tow out of the small parking lot and away from the old pick-up truck and its owner. The boy walked with his spine straight, shoulders set back with his ruck sack hanging low now emptied of the bric-a-brac that it was housing, only held a small lunchbox being rattling inside, yet despite that, his head was low. Blond tendrils had been brushed smooth into waves now, that were slightly swept back with the speed they were walking.

The other students were milling around, in clusters or pairs or by their lonesome – nobody payed the strange new boy any mind. Mitchell returned to the truck, welcoming and welcomed by the squeak of its door and faded interior- only once did he turn on the engine once the boy was out of sight.


	6. Chapter 6

A harsh screeching of a bell rang through the air, despite its obnoxious and grating sound it came to a relief to just perhaps every individual who heard it. Class had ceased and break period had taken its place, and Arcade never being one to break routine, was already making way to read in the boy’s bathroom. Yet his steps had been brought to a pause when a tinny, yet booming voice passed through his ears. “AH, IF IT ISN’T MR. ARCADE ISRAEL GANNON IF MY SENSOR’S ARE CORRECT. WHICH THEY ARE. COME HERE PLEASE.”

A sigh was restrained as the young man broke free, separating from the swarm of students in various states of fatigue swimming through the door, barely a few managing to break their angst of teenage self-pity to pay any mind. Arcade felt that familiar sense of unsurety he came under when his father would call his name from the bottom of the stairs as he stepped toward a desk that surely a cyborg designated to three screens and a brain in a jar wouldn’t ever require. The air was stuffy thanks to California weather and sweating youths occupying the room for an hour before the next set were to arrive; Arcade tugged on his shirt’s collar before speaking.

“Yes? Dr. Klein.” Voice shy on the side of uncomfortable, as one tended to be when confronted to communicate to something robotic attempting to replicate human anatomy, never mind said robot fulfilling the role of a teacher.

An expression couldn’t be read in the blinking eyes, identical copies, bar from one being larger in size, that made them seem more out of place than anything, and an image of a mouth that did not move as too-loud words came from his speaker. “YOU MUST WAIT HERE SHORTLY. MISS SMILES WILL BE HERE AT ANY MOMENT.” Then, without a wait for a response or confirmation, the screens twisted away, and a hum emitted as a metal arm shifted a stack of plain papers that Arcade had never once noticed to not be there – or ever used.

Arcade deduced it was most probably about the boy he and her had discussed prior. He pulled out a nearby chair with a screech of wood, made note of quite an unusual marking and swapped it for another, and seated himself. Pushing his glasses up with his middle finger was something he had, very, unfortunately got into the habit of, whether they needed said pushing or whether they didn’t at all; it was something he did (and must really stop since it tended to get him into far too much trouble) but thankfully the room was empty – bar Dr. Klein who wouldn’t make comment on the gesture – so he gave glasses said push just to make himself feel better, it always was nerve wracking to meet new people. It worked. Marginally.

The papers shuffled. The time allocated down to flipping numbers didn’t go by with the speed the youth would have liked. His gaze shifting to his polished shoes, wiggling against scratched, yet clean, tile as he thought. Miss Smiles was usually in charge of the students with special needs or behavioral issues, since apparently, they required the same care and attention to the eyes of under-qualified staff members, but she tried her best - he knew that. The two had came to an agreement of Arcade assisting one of the new students to arrive rather than choosing another elective, foreign languages was appealing but home economics was very much not. Taking a student with some social disadvantages under his wing could be rewarding in itself, but he did feel a tad bit guilty about using this stranger as a bartering chip to get out of being surrounded by girls whose only desire in life was to be a good housewife.

A knock sounded although the door was left open, breaking his focus from his distorted reflection in leather to reveal: Miss Smiles as predicted, with an awkward looking boy by her side. Although Arcade did attempt to make point of not falling into believing stereotypes or being accidentally discriminatory, he couldn’t help the shock that pulled his brows high. The boy appeared to be just like an ordinary sixteen-year-old, tall and thin yet sporting good shoulders and a wide jaw which would grow into a handsome face when the years came, the crooked door frame he was attempting to use as a shield couldn’t cover that. He looked normal. Fine-looking even.

With a clear of his throat, Arcade stood too quick and fumbled with his book bag while making the pitiful attempt to seem far shorter than he was in an effort to be less intimidating. It didn’t work. It never did. He ended up just getting bad posture.

“Arcade.” Said older boy stuck his hand out in introduction and greeting.

“Courier.” The boy even had the decency to wipe his hand on his jeans before shaking the one offered, albeit, weakly. He was timid but didn’t seem to be as disadvantaged as some of the other children Gannon had seen Smiles with. What an unusual name too – not that Arcade was in the position to make a comment on names.

-

Two teenage youths from very different paths had been put together for a reason. Arcade, for simply not wanting to take a class he didn’t like, and Courier, for not being as lucky in life as the prior boy. Strange how it connects people like that.

Miss Smiles had gone now wishing the pair to become fast friends and to return to her in her office at the end of the day. Courier smiled wide at something the older boy had said when she went away, which Arcade had thought was a perfectly normal thing to say at the time and not humorous at all, showing non-perfect teeth with no shame or awareness of the fact - as if he had never heard a complaint about them before. Which Arcade could most definitely decide that he probably, unfortunately, had. They stuck out too much, catching on his lip sometimes and weren’t the ghastliest shade of yellow but were tinted just enough to make note of it.

His jeans weren’t fashionable, the shirt he wore clearly belonged to an older family member prior, and one of his shoes’ sole was breaking away so much it made a small sound sometimes as it hit the ground, although Arcade wouldn’t dare comment on it however annoying it was. Yet, with all of that, the boy had good hair that clearly had been taken care of, and clear pale blue eyes, with feathering eyelashes, that felt a touch piercing at times. Like right now.

The older boy looked away, breaking a moment that seemed too intimate, if only to him, and feigned interest in one of the many social cliques that had placed themselves in the hallway by the lockers. He silently felt a twinge of sympathy for whichever sorry soul had to ask to squeeze past the group to get to theirs. Green eyes landed on a senior with a daisy suit jacket and a face too small for his head, almost everyone was very aware of Benny’s reputation but never had Arcade experienced a direct interaction with him thankfully; making a mental note to hopefully never let him come into contact with Courier, people like that tended to prey on the weak – like a shark sniffing blood in the water.

An ivory hand tugged on his book bag’s strap and motioned for his new, assigned, friend to follow. “Follow me, I can show you the library?”

Courier nodded, aggressively, with his hair shaking something wild, Arcade stopped himself from looking to see if anyone cared to notice the unusual movement and pointed the way to the doors behind himself with a small smile he put some effort into showing.

-

The boy was awkward, that had been noticed upon first sighting, but was even more evident in the way his neck was craned down to the oak table, with smooth hair falling down the sides of his face like a horse’s blinders – predictably grown with the same purpose in mind. He had spoken some, sometimes with rapid pace, then a lull as he thought, telling stories about his grandfather but with no mention of other family relations. Questions were not given to Arcade, no requests to speak about his life, or what he did, but when Courier’s age was revealed and that he was in the grade below, the older boy mentioned his own age and grade – Courier’s jaw dropped in a dramatic fashion as if he had spoken something that could never be true. As if the mere concept of Arcade being older had never crossed his mind.

“That means you’re an adult!” His voice wavered, body shaking with energy that could be nerves or excitement but not at all due to the warm weather. A denim-clad knee even hit Arcade’s own, but it seemed the owner of said knee didn’t notice – waiting on a response from the boy accompanying him on the small table with his face frozen in an open smile.

Arcade retracted his leg, with some difficulty due to his height, and spoke in the least condescending tone he could muster, “Well, yes. But people could be any age and enroll in high school. You will be eighteen at the end of your senior year.”

Courier just blinked back at that, clearly not having the best concept of time or aging. Probably just thinking he would stay the same age forever; his grandfather would never die, and everything would be the same. Arcade wondered what his mental age was. Clearing his throat, he held out his hand and asked to see the younger boy’s timetable, he was handed a small laminated sheet, double sided. It had different colors than Arcade’s, and the text was in a different font with more rounded edges.

TUESDAY

9:05 – 10:05 Mathematics

10:05 – 10:35 Break

10:35 – 11:35 Skills for Life

11:35 – 12:35 English

12:35 – 13:25 Lunch

13:25 – 14:25 E.S.O.L

14:24 – 15:15 I.L.T

The older boy recognized Independent Learning Tasks but not the class before it. He placed the timetable between the two, pointed with a finger and inquired to what it was but Courier just shrugged, not losing his smile.

“O-okay, and do you know where the classes are? It isn’t labelled on here.”

“Same room as I was before, with Miss Smiles.” The boy paused for a second, brows over-emotionally pulling together as the thought, “Then I think she said I go to other rooms eventually, maybe.” Speaking around the nail he was biting, not that there was much nail to bite.

Arcade didn’t know what to do with that. What was the point of him, if only to be polite acquaintances with the strange boy? To be honest, Smiles hadn't explained much before she rushed off to wherever she had to be next - only showing relief when he agreed to the prospect. Courier wasn’t annoying, or completely terrible to be around, but he couldn’t imagine maintaining polite small talk with him forever. He felt that pang of guilt again, and supposed if he were in Courier’s position, he would like a constant to keep him company, to know he wasn’t going to have to dine in the toilets like Arcade did in his first few years at private school.

“Do you know I’m going to be in some of the classes with you?” He pulled out his own as he spoke, slightly shy that his was a bit worse for wear, he really must draw up another one soon. “We have independent lessons at the same time, we can work together then.” Smile evident in his voice as the boy in front of him smiled and nodded, in that way he did, in reply.

Courier’s introductions could be made to his friends at lunch, then they would hopefully keep any comments to themselves until he was out of ear shot and heading back to his specialized classes.


	7. Chapter 7

It was gym class; the boys had been split into two groups for a game of dodgeball while the girls on the other side of the hall played ping pong. A ball from either side of the line of tape separating them would occasionally stray into the middle, an accident or on purpose, it didn’t matter, then a teacher would blow their whistle in warning. Not that Boone actively paid attention to it, it’s just something you noticed when it happened every lesson, two days a week.

He was sweating, nylon shirt sticking to his chest as if he had just jumped into a pool of water headfirst and blinking away droplets threatening to get into his eyes. It was an option to feign not being able to play, to sit out on the bench to cool off, but Craig Boone was anything but a quitter – having a more than healthy competitive streak. Plus, throwing a ball at the dickhead with too much hair gel, that was wilting with the heat, was a good way to blow off steam.

Eventually, and inevitably, the hour came to an end and Manny caught up with him, hopping up from the bench on the side as soon as the whistle blew for a final time. A hand clasped his shoulder, making the fabric stick so much more, causing an uncomfortable expression to grace his friend’s face, but that was just how Boone tended to look at times, so said friend probably didn’t think much of it. Fingers squeezing for a beat before dropping as they walked side-by-side, shouldering whoever was lingering in the too-small doorway for too long.

Manny didn’t speak and neither did Boone. Maybe for once, his friend had some sense knocked into him when the dodgeball made contact with his skull earlier, sensing the tension (or more than usual amount of tension) radiating by his side.

Changing happened as usual. It stank of sweat, you could barely breathe because of windows that never opened and too much cheap deodorant that boys had gotten last Christmas being sprayed. When Boone had his shirt peeled off, Manny asked if he wanted to go smoke by the trash cans for some fresh air; neither cared about the hypocrisy in the words, so he nodded while unzipping his bag and avoiding an elbow from someone else in the packed locker room.

-

Sitting in silence was pleasant, they hadn’t done that in a while. Manny being a Khan and getting to his age meant he had some family tradition problems or something, so he’d been worked up lately. Boone only half listened to it, not out of lack of caring but more out of struggling to grasp the complex inner-family politics being explained to him, he just gave a few grunts now and then and that seemed to keep his friend happy – if listening was the least he could do then he was alright with that. Manny was tough and he would come out in top in the end, he always did, but it didn’t mean he didn’t get wound up sometimes.

However, today, the roles would be reversed and the usual silent partner would have to finally rip the band-aid off, telling Manny was going to be the true finalization to his and Carla’s relationship - as if that didn’t happen when she screamed at him down the phone line and although he knew his best friend would never understand _why_ he loved her, being the way he was inclined, he knew he really did. Thinking back on how when he clicked the phone back in its hook, even the cat outside had sat on the porch looking at him through the open door, staring at the teenager like his family was. Each with their own separate look of distaste, whether it was embarrassment for having to overhear the things she said, what Boone didn’t say back, or disgust on what he did to her.

Shaved scalp hit the brick wall of the school as he turned, in an effort to face his friend rather than speaking to the ground as he usually did, not that it meant much behind tinted sunglasses, before taking one last drag, stubbing the cigarette in the mortar gaps and pocketing the un-smoked half in his pocket for another time when his brain said he needed it.

The last of the smoke broke free as he spoke, “Uh, listen bud. I got something to tell you.” Boone cut the eye-contact thing before he even finished his sentence, instead watching his friend’s shoes turn to point at him, his own cigarette dropping as the sneaker crunched it into the gravel. Manny always wore his sneakers the whole day if they had gym.

They both knew it was out of character for Boone, he was feeling pretty thankful his friend knew better than to tease him or make comment on it, instead the best friend replied with a “Anything, man.” His voice was soft, betraying his rough exterior.

Sweat was still coming out of him, but for an entirely different reason now, he dragged a wide tanned hand down his face disrupting the dead skin there and sighed. Looking up revealed Manny being patient for once, with soft brown eyes and his dark eyebrows pulling up. Giving off the same energy as a kicked puppy. If seeing his best friend breaking his usual mask upset him that much, then said friend should hurry up and put him out of his misery. “I got her pregnant.” His eyes fell back down as he spoke.

It was silent for a beat or two, bar the crunch under his friend’s shoes as he shifted his weight, taking in the information. The sneakers came closer for a moment, then stepped back further than they started, the voice above them neutral. “What you gonna do?”

A rough fingernail came up to his teeth without even thinking on it, a flimsy defense against giving anything resembling a reply, but a defense, nonetheless. Boone turned away, facing the fence and all its graffiti from other lovers come and gone, and a few dicks drawn just for the fun of it.

“Broke up.” He said.

“That sucks.” Manny replied.

Being best friends for so long, you tended to want to punch the other person now and then, it was natural; although, it was only now, in the moment with sweat cooling his skin and the claustrophobic outside air around them, that Craig Boone genuinely entertained the thought. But then, when did Boone ever give Manny more than a grunt or two, when he casually mentioned how young he was when he found out his family was dealing chems, or when he admitted he was shitting himself due to his initiation day was coming up?

They met at Camp McCarran, both picking military training when they turned sixteen the same month, before they even knew the other existed, coming together like brothers they didn’t know they had. It was tough but Manny made it alright, Craig may have been lacking in his grades in school but made up for it the way he held a gun, the NCR was always asking for more men and women, the posters ever lurking in the corner of your vision somewhere; it all felt so right until they heard what happened over at Bitter Springs. How the Khans got shot down, women and children, how it could have been either of them pulling the trigger. When it played on the T.V., with Boone standing behind his little brother who didn’t quite understand what he was seeing, he couldn’t help but see the resemblance in some of those faces, with the same dark hair and eyes almost black, but still holding something kind and tender. They didn’t deserve it.

So, they jumped ship and that was that, didn’t talk about it, just making the same decision as they tended to do – acting as one. Manny wasn’t a bad guy really, as different as they were, they were a team and you didn’t say one name without the other; they’d been through a lot and would probably go through a lot more when the years came.

Green eyes looked up to brown, and on the way there, they couldn’t help but notice the slight upturn twitch of lips. Boone blinked, not even registering it proper, before his head was pulled into his friends’ shoulder, being patted on the back and told things would work out. Boone wasn’t quite sure he believed it.

The Khan kept him in an embrace that felt genuine, but with a voice as if following a script of what he’d seen in a movie once. “Everything happens for a reason.” He said, like he even knew what he was saying or what the words meant. Boone stayed, head buried in a crook of neck and shoulder – not due to the touch being reassuring, but more of not trusting himself to look at his friend’s face again. He smelled familiar and it hurt.

“Guess you wouldn’t ever know what that feels like.” He didn’t mean for it to come out that bitter, the internal anger that had found such a cozy home inside of him spilling out some. Hopefully, his speech was muffled enough that it didn’t sound so bad in his best friend’s ears as it did to his own.

“What’s that meant to mean?” Manny always did tend to take the defense.

“Cut it, Manny. I don’t care. I know.” He pulled back and was let go with no resistance. The smile he still didn’t know the meaning behind was gone and was back to pulling down on the corners, making him look something akin to the sad faces on the drama posters up in the corridors. Maybe a touch of fear flashed on the face he was so close to right now, but Boone was never the best at reading people. Noticing things? Sure, but that didn’t mean he knew what to do with the information after.

Neither spoke, Manny stepping back as Boone looked at the crushed cigarette beneath them, toeing at it with his boot on automatic.

After a few beats passed, Manny made move to the carton of cigarettes from his shirt pocket once more, but a wider hand halted his movements, reaching into cargoes and handing the half-finished butt from earlier. Manny lit the end and Boone nodded, settling back into verbal silence, but individual internal thoughts too loud to focus on anything else.

It was always like them, to talk just enough, never quite finishing the conversation. Open-ended wounds never quite getting the full chance to heal.


	8. Chapter 8

The cafeteria was a chorus of stainless-steel scraping porcelain, unintelligible shouts coming from unknown voices and Arcade giving the occasional ‘excuse me’ as he escorted his new companion through too-close chairs. Eventually making it to a rectangular table in the far corner, with two girls already accompanying it, the smaller of the two shooting her hand in the air as if he hadn’t noticed where he sat every lunch for nearly a year and a half. The one to the left, who had raised her hand, was clearly shorter despite her sitting and less-than-ideal posture and was wearing a glint to her brown eyes, already homing in on the new stranger - though it wasn’t visible due to her headscarf, it was evident that her hair was a similar shade, going off her eyebrows.

The smaller girl had a wicked sense of wit that matched Arcade’s own and introduced herself as Veronica and when Courier asked with a sense of eagerness if it could be changed to Ronnie instead, she was more than happy to accept. Round cheeks flushing only to be enhanced by her smile, furthermore, making the young girl look more than pleased at the new member of the table. She nudged the girl by her side, Francine’s introductions being made for her by the other who spoke more than she should, “Franny,” she spoke pointing at the more masculine of them despite it not being necessary, “has a twin brother, he’ll show up soon since I think if twins are apart for more than a few hours they explode or something.”

Though Francine didn’t speak much she made up for it in the intensity of her expressions, rolling her eyes and not seeming too impressed with the runt that had been brought along. Not that said runt appeared to notice, still showing those teeth at Veronica and asking if what she said were really true with some wonder in his tone. Francine was a battle-axe of a young woman the same age as Arcade, sporting an expression similar to that of a cat that hadn’t gotten its own way, though she didn’t make move to do or say anything impolite – ignoring Courier and directing her attention to non-appealing food under her nose.

Courier’s stringy shape had been waiting outside the smaller classroom, its purpose unknown and simply ignored by regular students, and once Arcade, looking obviously relieved when the older boy fulfilled his promise of meeting him after third period. It was surprising, Arcade didn’t think the boy had the capacity for worry, scolding himself after the thought. He was ever underestimating people.

The boy was now holding a slightly disappointed pull to his brows and lips after Veronica assured him, no, twins don’t explode usually, and was pulling a Vault-Tec lunchbox out of his rucksack. Triangles of sandwiches that lacked crusts had been wrapped neatly in cellophane, sitting comfortably by a small carton of juice - with a design obviously marketed to children younger than them - and a packet of chips that weren’t very noteworthy. Francine and Veronica exchanged a look bordering something on not knowing whether to find the act adorable or uncomfortable, Arcade simply pressed his lips together and shot them a look of warning before, Veronica being Veronica, let out a squawk of laughter that broke through the barrier of her hand over her lips.

His expression grew further in confusion at that, blissfully unaware, but seeing it still brought some sympathy over Arcade, memories of him opening his own packed lunch in the toilet cubicles span through his mind, the contents looked very similar. With that wave he felt thankful as he spotted the familiar face of James Garret and his food tray awkwardly passing the gaps in the same route of packed together tables and chairs he and Courier had taken moments before – diverting Courier’s attention.

Soon enough a brother filled the empty chair that always seemed to be by the sister no matter where she sat as he always did, stuttering his complaints about the prior lesson before interrupting himself upon noticing seating arrangements had been changed. Now the seat before him bore empty, the once only other male of the table now sat in front of Veronica whilst the unfamiliar boy faced Francine’s ever-present scowl. A kick sounded under the table, giving rise to the twins to share a silent language as they tended to do, before the brother apologized for foggy memory, asking just how could he forget the boy Arcade had told them they were all going to have the pleasure to meet. Pushing back sweaty fringe as he tripped over his lines, however the boy he was speaking too did not listen. Eyes had unfocused and pale hands ripped the bread into small pieces before being brought to his mouth. Shaking leg disrupting the trouser belonging to the boy by his side. How quick one’s mood could switch, how quick a boy with an undetermined social condition could react to an environmental change.

Pity washed over the rest of the teens, immature but still at least having the sense to share a mind of leaving the boy be, to let the moment pass whilst he came to himself.

Twins bickered, batting away hands making way for food, not out of desire of the item being something enjoyable to eat but rather simply because it was a joyful experience to cause annoyance, and two people known for their ability to gossip doing just that, running with whatever was hot at the moment. Veronica was spinning a story that not a single person would doubt it’s validity if they knew her, conveying her pride in when a boy had tugged her scarf, she responded with a physical reaction of her right-hook in response – much to her friend’s disapproval. Arcade always did like to take the brains over brawn approach but could appreciate how despite her small stature she packed an impressive punch. She gave plenty opportunities for that.

When a passing mention to her grandfather and his work were made, Courier’s twitches grew to his normal level, passing a look to Arcade as a silent request for permission to partake in the conversation. The boy received a nod paired with a head start for support, “Courier lives with his grandfather too. Used to work in a vault?”

The vigorous headshake that occurred earlier happened once more in confirmation, “For Mr. House, but I don’t know who that is.” Chewed sandwich being pushed around as he spoke.

Whatever awkwardness that had come over during the exaggerated head movements and lack of table manners had now been replaced with varying degrees of shock on each teenager’s face. Arcade’s pale brows coming over his glasses, Veronica letting out a soft sound of awe, Francine remaining cool with only one slightly raised eyebrow, and her brother making up for her lack of enthusiasm with some exaggerated jaw drop of his own. Stolen pea being squashed under his fingers without intending so.

The stunned silence was broken by the most expected, Veronica asking with a hint of eagerness to her tone, pushing scarf back so her ears poked out in a humorous way “How did he leave?”

Another confused look came to the boy, passing Arcade a glance as if a recent stranger were more likely to know the answer to such a question. It was accepted among the population of not-only the Mojave but the entirety of America that nobody would just ‘leave’ a vault once granted the exclusive access. Advertised as a heaven below ground and not one bad word could, or would, be heard about anything regarding Vault-Tec and House’s company. Suspicious, to anyone with a brain cell and ability to dictate a conscious thought for themselves, but it didn’t make it any less accepted.

Courier mumbled after a shrug came from Arcade, admitting he didn't know how or much about vaults at all. Slowly, they had nothing more to respond to that other than with the return of clinking cutlery, joining the chorus of other similar noises from other students dining. The group of youths falling into the same routine as they always did, with the only outlier now being Arcade making clumsy attempts to fit the new member into the topic of what dress Veronica was going to wear to prom, her own lunch long forgotten - something she was still flip-flopping over from as far back as freshman years. Courier suggested something sparkly whilst Arcade suggested a topic change – Veronica preferred the former answer.


	9. Chapter 9

The days passed just fine; Arcade managed to come over the awkward-getting-to-know stage with only minute difficulty. Even putting the relationship in stone by casually mentioning the odd boy to his mother over dinner, whilst her thoughts were clearly not in the same room as her. Perhaps they were there with his father, working overtime he would say. But those things that were so often said did not hold the meaning they were meant to, so Arcade would give a hollow ‘I love you’ down the phone and pass it to his wife who would repeat something similar each time.

Tonight, the dish was something coming from the back of a freezer, from somewhere not quite a supermarket but holding a more respectable reputation than that, however the fact that it was a frozen ready meal at all was rather unusual. The mother didn’t know the son knew of course, but when the son threw a wrapper from a candy bar, that Courier had given him, in the trash, the black plastic wasn’t quite buried as well as it could have been. Shining in an almost slimy way against the spotless metal can and the tiles – it was so out of place.

When Arcade mentioned Courier, a clumsy attempt at cutting through the omnipresent tension that would feel so utterly suffocating at times, his mother did cock her head, mind settling down – it wasn’t a common occurrence that her son made new friends, usually speaking about the same handful, that eventually must get a tad boring even to a mother who was eager for every word from her son anyway.

“He’s… unusual, and a tad poor, but I help him in our independent classes. He’s a grade below but at least that means I know, or should know, what he’s learning and it’s working out so far. He’s nice.” Arcade spoke mainly to the peas feigning so hard to be fresh, and the mashed potatoes that were freezer burnt hours prior but looked up to his mother’s eyes at the end. She held a sadness to her, but the son did not suspect it to be for him, those less fortunate had always struck her heart so easily.

“Good.” Is all she said, in an almost matter of fact way, something that could be interpreted as slightly stern to the right ears. When her son gently inquired if anything were causing her upset, she eyed the clock. Then the peas. Then nail polish; so evenly applied like it were any other day. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Arcade. When I found out I was pregnant with you, I never thought we would be sitting as we are now.” Ever honest, even when she didn’t want to be. “Your father is distant, from both of us, and…” However, if one didn’t talk then it would not technically be a lie.

“…What?” It was always rude, uncouth, to reply with such a word but it didn’t go scolded right now.

Whether it was what she intended to say originally wouldn’t ever be known, or truly quite matter, as the next words out of her lips were the most unexpected yet they really shouldn’t have been at all. She wiped her mouth despite the fact she hadn’t ate yet, lipstick only smudging on the corner of the cloth but not her face. She sounded just as how she did moments before, “You mention Veronica a lot, how about asking her to prom? She’s dropping hints at you, isn’t she? What with you forever mentioning that she’s always talking about which dress-”

“Mother.”

“What?” Echoing her son as meal heated by microwaves grew cold between the two. 

The knife and fork still sparkling clean were dropped gently to the table-top, he spoke with little inflection to his tone, “You know I don’t like her like that.” Her son was not one to lie either.

“Well it’s just an idea.” Not even making attempt at hiding such a dour tenor to her words. It wasn’t like her to ever make attempts at controlling who Arcade did and didn’t choose to surround himself with. Even when his father ignorantly decided that his son had taken up drug use, he was never interrogated by his mother on the matter, she trusted him and held a respect not just for someone who was her son. But someone who was his own person.

He didn’t know how to reply, it wasn’t something he had to learn how to respond to just yet, heartbeat already increasing and palms producing a sweat whilst they pressed flat to the lacquered wood. It projected their warped reflections so strongly to the cold room. How easy it would be to bring up what was in the trash can under the sink, to voice how his father and her husband had grown more distant than usual, but it was also so incredibly difficult – he didn’t want life to change, it was fine as it was just now.

The son’s hands had picked up the cutlery once more, thankfully not muttering but speaking with some air of confidence, an “Okay” that could mean just about anything.

Perhaps it was even a confirmation that Veronica was dropping the hints she suggested she were and the son even tried his best to discard the memory of his best friend crying how she just didn’t understand how other girls fell in love with boys. They both knew what she meant, being the way they were, it was something they had just understood about one another without ever finding the need to voice it. Her friend consoled her from the other side of the bathroom stall before being let inside, it was the only time the two had ever skipped a lesson and even that was possibly the riskiest thing Arcade had ever done at the time; the pair eventually giggling how ridiculous they were being in the girls’ bathrooms and just what people would think if they caught them there.

Despite his mother knowing full well that if something were so easily dismissed, that the person was not truly listening, she accepted his response. Poking at the meal she had served them both with only a fork in her right hand, disappointment showing so painfully in the faint wrinkles the years had given her over time. Such disappointment wasn’t entirely due to Arcade, but he felt as though it may as well have been. The clinking of steel was such a small noise yet seemed so loud even with Arcade’s attempts at not making it scrape against porcelain. It did anyway and it was apparent his mother was doing just the same. The young man made comment that the meal was pleasant, yet it only caused further pain to the woman before him, a feeling of believing everyone would be better off if he were born without a mouth crossed his mind – and not for the first time. ‘Big Mouth’ was something his not-quite-Auntie Daisy called him from time to time.

-

Plates were cleared at around 19:00, Arcade’s practically clean already since he was telling the truth with his well-meaning compliment, it was surprisingly nice. Nevertheless, the heavy sound of peas hitting the plastic he feigned not seeing earlier made it clear that his mother didn’t enjoy the meal as much. Knife not even disguising its scraping this time as the last of mash fell away.

Arcade offered to wash his own as he always did, and his mother refused as she always did. Even the task of washing a plate was adding something interesting to her life he supposed and bid her a goodnight, her reply was sincere despite the earlier atmosphere and she seemed almost relieved that it were gone. On his way up the stairs, just by the photograph of him as a baby, playing with eyebot model in his father’s office, he could have sworn he heard his mother cry, but the pause was only momentary before he continued his steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ON HIATUS until college work is over! but i will be coming back to complete definitely


	10. Chapter 10

Craig Boone should have known better than to cheat. The Vargas boy wasn’t known for his intelligence, but it seemed as though he had been putting in extra time for studying – or the angels were on his side – as his best friend received something a bit happier than the usual frowny faced stamped in bleeding red ink on the corner of his paper. It should have triggered something in the robot’s brain that a boy who could barely be considered literate and who had to mouth the words as he were reading in order to understand what had been written, had most certainly cheated on the paper. Yet even the most advanced programming had not been able to account for a scenario that should seem so prevalent. Rather than being scolded, he had been instructed to receive a new timetable, with a congratulations on his improvement.

There it was in his hands, smooth laminate, everything the same but different rooms. Different rooms that didn’t have the same cracks in the walls he was used to, or the same pretty girls to look at. Manny was in this class. Things had remained stilted since that day after gym, either boy thinking about something different. Manny’s mind probably ratting with Boone’s ‘I know’ and the other thinking on that twitch of a smirk.

Boone was standing outside the new door to Math class now, feeling like a man on his way to execution – or public humiliation. Without so much as a knock, the handle turned and opened, revealing acned faces looking at the strange latecomer, and three screens somehow giving a non-too-different expression. It was silent for a beat, he was never one who had been able to become too comfortable about machines replacing humans, and before he could excuse himself for his lateness a voice came from its speakers, “AH YES… CRAIG BOONE, PLEASE TAKE A SEAT.”

Manny’s familiar face was there. Same pull to his eyebrows and sadness to his lips as he held behind the trash cans, the same one he had been growing more comfortable holding lately – aging a complexion that should look youthful and boyish but was now growing into a man’s. Boone served his friend a blank flick of his eyes, and headed toward the back of the class, bringing a lack of company to the lone boy and even lonelier looking dried out plant by the window since it was the only spare seat going.

He never gave the boy to his left much of anything, not a look of acknowledgement or grunt in greeting, it may not have been the most socially polite of routes to take but ignorance was a perfect barrier to uncomfortable relationships. One does tend to seek comfort out of being on their lonesome so often, so when a copy of today’s task was passed to him by a girl who smiled like she wanted him to read her mind, he didn’t thank her. She frowned, only to turn and switch it right back around to another face enhanced by a slick back of hair gel. The boy, the one who’s head had been shaved due to the inaccessibility of the luxury of having much hair, patted cargo’s pockets in search of a pencil. His sunglasses, a lighter from Manny that he appreciated at the time and some loose squares of gum was all that could be felt; but before he could raise his arm, one was held under his nose.

Arcade, he whose name was not yet known to the other, did not speak either. A freshly sharpened HB pencil with eraser still fresh and pink sparkling for someone who was usually served second-hand scraps or loaned pencils that had been bitten by more than one mouth. Boone gave his thanks due to it being unavoidable, but it was with a mutter rather than something slightly jovial as expected.

The boy by his side did make moves to speak, giving a polite comment about how it was nice to have some company finally, and when receiving nothing but silence in return, something sounding like a ‘never mind’ were sighed. After many flicks of the clock’s numbers, counting away the minutes as they went by, and the shuffles of papers, Boone was feeling the embarrassment of how he would have to turn in a near empty sheet at the end. Letters and numbers swimming around the paper didn’t make it look so empty right now though. It could be seen from the corner of his eyes that the stranger had reached the very bottom of his own paper, whilst he who sat on the right share of the desk was still squinting at the ‘starter’ refresher equations he had not been taught how to tackle yet. If Boone had the mind, he could have perhaps seen the comparison that could be made to that and his relationships with people, but it was lost on him in the moment.

At the end, both of the papers were placed into their respective bags to Boone’s relief, extended tasks as homework were on the back to complete. A real brahmin-leather messenger bag oiled to a deep brown shade and a tattered old duffel bag that had been through so much, yet so ignored and lacking care with dust had settled tight into grooves that had never been bothered to be cleaned and the pair went their separate ways.

-

Boone had made it on time this lesson.

The night after the first he begrudgingly stood over his sister at her usual spot in the cramped trailer, pulling out the paper that got wrinkled on the walk back home and dropping it under her nose. She had put on the airs of being offended, but they both knew exercising her brain much was something she didn’t get to do much after leaving school – with nobody hiring either, a person would tend to get bored. she took the loaned pencil also offered that her brother never gave back and already had the thing flipped, eraser down. Boone couldn’t get offended by that since he knew that she was aware of what to expect. She wasn’t exactly a smart girl either but at least it would probably end up looking better than whatever he put down whilst trying not to stare at the back of Manny’s head or ignore some stranger trying to make conversation with him. So, he left her to it, scribbles of pencil being drowned out by the T.V, the man sleeping opposite it and the kids screaming at each other in the room down the back.

Afterwards, as the hours had gone on, the paper was slipped through the crack into Boone’s four walls, the light spilling through then dissipating with a flick of a switch moments later. He got up from his staring at the ceiling to drop it into his bag before returning back onto his mattress and slept.

The classroom was already half-filled with people, but Manny Vargas was stood by the doorway, perking up like a dog as he took his gaze away from kicking his boots at the tiles and saw his friend come into view. “Hey, man. You wanna sit together? I could get that girl to-”

“No.” Boone hadn’t taken off his sunglasses yet, and he would probably get some kind of scolding if he didn’t before entering the room but those sad brown eyes were a lot easier to handle behind tinted glass washing everything in a bit of umber, wasn’t nice that he didn’t want to see them at all though. “It’s just Math, Manny. See you after.”

A Khan who wasn’t good at hiding his feelings didn't make for a good Khan, spilling right onto his face and wearing his heart on his sleeve. Even growing up it hadn’t been beaten out of him yet. Seeing that relieved smile was familiar, had good memories attached to it, brought a bad wave of confusion along with it too. "Yeah, okay, man." It should have been the end of the conversation, if it could be called that, but instead they stood there awkward for a moment or two, Boone not having the room to get through the door and Manny inching forward before stepping back and coming to his senses to sit at his seat like everybody else.

When roll call came and the boy on the other side of the desk answered to the last name ‘Gannon’, Boone made the rare decision to raise his eyebrows, trying his best to sneak a glance at the boy to his side without the usual shades to give him full cover. But the other boy didn’t see, head perched on his hands and staring out the window without really seeing at all. When Boone’s name was called, he answered ‘here’ without turning away. Gannon looked at him now though, taking notice to the stare and waved one of his hands loosely in the air. “Yes, that Gannon.” Saying it like there was anybody else in the entire state of California with that last name.

“Sorry.” His voice was gruff and bore just a touch more emotion to it than usual. Boone knew better, from his own time with family bringing his reputation down and Manny’s stories about how mom and dad weren’t as nice as they seemed to be at parent-teacher meetings. He regretted the staring.

Gannon smiled back, not enough to show white teeth, just something polite then reaching down to that fancy leather bag. It was at this moment, seeing a small pencil case being taken from it, that Boone remembered the pencil at the bottom of his left pocket. Handing the pencil back to return it, Gannon held the other side with a smile – genuine like that leather bag of his, this time. “Aren’t you just going to ask to borrow this again?”

“Uh, yeah.” If Craig Boone didn’t feel stupid before, like he didn’t even deserve to share a desk with an Enclave official’s son, he definitely felt it now.

“Well thank you for returning it.” Gannon let go. “Now you can borrow it again.” Still holding the smile as he pulled the homework from his bag too, reminding his classmate to take his folded up piece from his pocket.

The lesson went by fine. Just fine, with papers handed in, refresher lessons that should have happened yesterday, Gannon gaining some confidence after the stunted interaction about the pencil, and Boone relieved it was settled and over until the next day they sat in these seats again. Even receiving some gentle coaching on when an equation was going in the wrong direction.

Manny still took to looking back, Boone still ignoring him in turn and feeling slight shame when those brown eyes caught Gannon’s smile aimed at him. Manny asked questions after all was said and done, lesson over, bags on shoulders and pencils back where they belonged in another boy’s case instead of his pocket. They were shouldering through crowded hallways as questions like “Did you know his dad is that government guy?” and “What were you guys talking about?” came rattling out.

“Math, Manny. What else would we talk about?” He ignored the previous question.

“Since when’d you cared about Math?” It wasn’t meant to be accusatory.

“Since taking your answers got me bumped to a higher set, dickhead.” Intended to be in jest, when you were at that stage of friendship where you didn’t have to be nice all the time. But they’d taken a step back and that wasn’t okay anymore. Manny quieted and they both headed to the cafeteria without saying much more after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly working on this whilst having extra work at home due to *the situation*, and I won't leave it abandoned for those interested in reading my interpretation of Fallout, thank you for any support!


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